


Night of the Storm

by quilledvrc



Category: Motherland: Fort Salem (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:01:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24433978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quilledvrc/pseuds/quilledvrc
Summary: 25 years ago, Sarah Alder met little Anacostia Quartermaine for the first time, when she swore to treat the girl as if she was her own.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 32





	Night of the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Might be an unpopular opinion around these parts, but I love the character of General Alder - I am utterly fascinated by her. Thrilled by the renewal for many reasons, not the least of which has me hoping that in season 2 we'll be able to explore more of her 300+ years.
> 
> This short fic was born from an idea that was kicking around in my head as early as episode 2, but I finally got inspired to put words to page after the finale.

Sarah Alder had long been fascinated by storms. With centuries of experience in living, working and harmonizing with weather, there was so much she knew and understood about meteorological phenomenons — but nights like this told her that there, too, was so much she did not. 

Nights like this one, where dusk and evening seamlessly merged into one, besieged by a maelstrom that raged on unchecked, often mesmerized her. 

As the wind and rain roared on outside, the general stood as she often did — alone, with a glass of whiskey in hand — looking out from her office window into the blackness — illuminated periodically by the flash of lightning and backed by the soundtrack of rumbling thunder — of the expansive lawns in the heart of Fort Salem, buried in the recesses of her own mind. 

A rapping at the door, soft at first, but soon more fervent, pulled Sarah from her thoughts. 

Jolted, she turned on her heels to find the young Nessa Clary, one of her closest confidants, standing before her in the doorway.

“Clary,” Sarah spoke tersely, “what brings you here at this late hour?”

Nessa stepped forward. “I come bringing news, General. And it is…”

She trailed off, shifting her eyes from the general’s hardened gaze.

Sarah raised an eyebrow. “It is… _what_? From where? In regards to whom?”

“Domestic, ma’am. It’s… it’s Major General Quartermaine. She… she’s… and her husband…”

“Out with it, Clary.”

“Ma’am… they’re gone.”

Sarah inhaled sharply. “Gone? H—how?”

“Motor vehicle accident. Off base, on the interstate,” Nessa said. “Fuel tanker skidded on the wet road, crossed over into oncoming traffic. Around the bend, they never saw it coming… and they didn’t…”

Sarah winced at the thought, as if she’d been struck, and sank slowly into her desk chair, placing her near-empty glass on the wooden table. 

“By the time they put the blaze out,” Nessa continued, “th—there was… there was nothing left.”

_There were her thoughts again._ For much of her life, Sarah had a symbiotic relationship with death. She had seen death. Known death. Accepted and compartmentalized death. A necessary evil of war to bring peace, she said. 

This… this was different. One of her most brilliant minds. At home. A soldier’s soldier. In peacetime. 

But it was the next realization that hit Sarah harder, washing over her all at once.

“…And her daughter?” she asked.

“The girl has been brought here, ma’am.”

“Take me to her.”

* * *

The pounding rain echoed heavily on the windows as Sarah and Nessa entered the fosterlings’ sleeping quarters, located on the opposite side of base from the barracks that housed soldiers.

From the entryway, Nessa signaled towards the stairs. “Second floor, last door on the right. You'll find her there.” 

“Thank you, Clary. Dismissed.” 

After making her way upstairs, Sarah entered the quarters quietly, opening the door just enough to slip through. In this particular room, most of the beds were empty — except for one, furthest from the door in the right corner of the room. 

On the small bed, curled up on top of the grey blanket, facing the wall, was little Anacostia Quartermaine.

Making her way across the room, careful to not be overtly disruptive, Sarah sat down at the foot of the bed, and leaned forward as if to place her hand on the girl’s near shoulder.

Before Sarah reached her or could even speak, the child stirred, turning over as her eyes fluttered open. She lifted her left hand above her eyes, attempting to shield them from the light that was now peeking into the room.

Recognizing Sarah’s presence, Anacostia sat up at attention on the bed. “Good evening, ma’am.”

“Hello, Anacostia,” Sarah spoke softly. “Did I wake you?”

A slow shake of the head. “No, ma’am. I wasn't sleepy.” Anacostia stifled a yawn, which nonetheless Sarah made note of.

“Do you know who I am?”

A vigorous nod. “Yes, ma’am. You’re my mama’s boss. She talks about you a lot.” 

She pointed at the four silver stars adorning Sarah’s uniform.

“You’re the boss of all the witches in the army. General Alder.”

“That’s right. You’re as smart as your mama says you are, Anacostia,” Sarah said with a smile. “You can call me Sarah.”

“My mama says…” Anacostia paused. “…Mama says you taught her how to be strong.”

“I—,” Sarah’s voice caught in her throat. 

She steadied with a breath. “…I didn’t teach her much, you know, because your mother… your mother was one of the best witches I’ve ever known.”

Little Anacostia looked away at Sarah’s use of the word _was,_ pulling her knees close to her chest. The silence hung heavily, until the girl spoke again, barely above a whisper.

“Mama goes away a lot… but this is different, isn’t it?” she asked, still averting her eyes.

Sarah sat quiet. She hardly ever found herself at a loss for words — in welcoming new cadets, speaking to civilians, bargaining with world leaders — but in her many years, she now realized that she had yet to get comfortable with words that could reconcile the finality of death to a six-year-old. 

“…Yes, my love,” she whispered, and reached to take Anacostia’s tiny hands in her own. “…It is very different.”

At Sarah’s touch, Anacostia looked up, her brown eyes wide and wet with tears, searching the general’s face.

“She’s not coming back, is she? And Daddy… D—do I have to stay here now?” 

“You will be safe here, Anacostia,” Sarah said. “We have a lot of children like you at Fort Salem. Special children. There are many people here who will take care of you. Good people. You will learn—”

_CRACK!_ A particularly bellowing crash of thunder interrupted Sarah’s next thought.

At the sound, Anacostia shuddered. With a small whimper, she flung her arms around Sarah’s neck and squeezed, burying her face in the general's chest.

Taken aback, if but for a moment, Sarah gently wrapped her arms around the child and pulled her close. 

“This I promise you — you will be loved here, little girl,” Sarah whispered as she soothed her, tracing her hand in small circles on her back. 

“And you will always have a home here. On my honor, I'll take care of you."

**Author's Note:**

> That's it: my first hit at a Motherland fic. Thanks for taking the time to read and I would love to hear your thoughts in the comments!


End file.
